


And a Star to Steer Her By

by Delwin



Series: ...yo, ho, ho and a bottle of rum (the Voyager space pirate saga)... [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, Space Pirates!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29646222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delwin/pseuds/Delwin
Summary: …episode one of the Voyager Space Pirate saga, wherein our piratical heroes are flung into unexpected and dire circumstances…
Relationships: Tom Paris/B'Elanna Torres
Series: ...yo, ho, ho and a bottle of rum (the Voyager space pirate saga)... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2178453
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter One, in which the pirate ship Val Jean expands her crew

_Eons ago, when the Great Rings were still in their bright infancy, reflecting and intensifying all light that came their way, tall ships skimmed their glittering surface, bearing the races of the Twin Planets and their many moons across the vast reaches of space…_

  
  
“We need a pilot.”

“We have a pilot. He’s standing in front of you.”

“A real pilot, Chakotay.” B’Elanna doesn’t bother to scowl, her captain notices. Probably a bad sign.

“We’re not a merchant ship. We can’t just pick up some ex-Fleeter.”

Now she does scowl: the ‘Fleet is a sore point. “No, we’re a pirate ship. Can’t we just pick up a pirate pilot…or ex-pirate pilot…or whatever?”

Chakotay’s eyebrows climb. “You’d trust a space pirate to fly your ship?”

“It’s your ship, not mine,” she returns, less than pleased with his banter. “And isn’t it currently being flown by a space pirate pilot?”

“Not a real one apparently.”

“Chakotay…”

“My point,” and he holds up his hands in a peace offering, “is that ‘real’ pilots don’t grow on trees. And,” he adds, “they usually don’t come cheap.”

“Still, we need one.”

Chakotay scratches his salt and peppered hair. “You really think I won’t cut it?”

“In atmosphere, sure. But we’re heading back out to the Rings.”

“Bendera?” The captain twists back to the man lounging amidst the small mountain of supply crates littering the ship’s main deck, his ostensive focus on feeding crackers to the ship’s parrot, Neelix. “A little help here?”  
  
Tossing Neelix a final offering, Bendera reluctantly turns toward where his captain and the ship’s engineer continue to face off. “Sorry, Captain. For one,” he grimaces, “she’s right. And for two,” the grimace morphs into a lopsided grin, “she’s scarier.”

The engineer snorts but crosses her arms and raises a brow in challenge to her captain. Standing on the _Val Jean_ ’s deck in her pirate leathers and with her ridged Klingon profile, Chakotay admits that Bendera likely has a point: she is scarier.

He concedes defeat. “There is one possibility that has been mentioned to me.”

“One is all we need.”

“You’re not going to like him.”

“I don’t need to like him. I just need him to…”

“…fly the ship,” Chakotay finishes as, satisfied that she has won her point, his engineer turns to head back below decks to her engine room. He stands watching her go, his teeth gritted.

Bendera rises from his crates and moves to his captain’s shoulder. “What is it?”  
  
Chakotay shrugs, then sighs.  
  
“I’m not going to like him either.”

…

_The Rings loop around the Twin Planets like an immense serpent, crossing above and below the barycenter of the two bodies before winding around the planets themselves in a great, unending figure eight. The two planets, Earth and Cardassia, are twins in mass as well as name, orbiting that barycenter in a near perfect circle._

_Caught up in the dance between the Twin Planets are many moons._

_Some circle loyally around one planet or the other, perhaps pulled toward the sister planet at their apogee, but always returning home. With these steadfast moons, each Twin claims those in orbit as their own._

_Others are shepherd moons, embedded with the Rings and following their swift loops between the two worlds. For expediency, these relatively small bodies are politically neutral, a favorite stop off for ships of both worlds as they traverse the Rings._

_And then there are the Tortoises: the five great moons orbiting in wide, slow ellipses around the outside of the Twin Planets and their bright Rings. Each of the five are a rich source of minerals and resources and an even richer source of conflict and strife._

When the new pilot arrives aboard a day later, the _Val Jean_ ’s chief engineer indeed does not like him. Though, for what consolation it might be, Chakotay likes him even less.

Tom Paris is an arrogant, self-absorbed pig.

B’Elanna had not been privy to the details of where Chakotay had dug the ex-’Fleeter up from, nor how he had known to find him there, but by the aromas emanating from Paris’s person and garments when Chakotay delivers him onboard the _Val Jean_ , she can guess at some of the generalities.

She ignores the pilot’s outstretched hand, as well as his drawled greeting and accompanying leer.

“Couldn’t you have at least sobered him up first?” B’Elanna growls at Chakotay.

He shrugs. “You said we needed a pilot. I’ve brought us a pilot.”

_Bought_ us a pilot was probably more accurate, with funds that would no doubt go towards an extensive bar bill at their next port, but B’Elanna had been the one to suggest a mercenary so she can hardly argue that point.

“He’s not going to be much help if he’s too drunk to do anything but crash into a ring chunk and kill us all.”

“That won’t happen.”

B’Elanna blinks as she realizes that the words – without slur and entirely sober – have come from Paris.

“You can trust me with your ship. I promise you that.” Still taken aback by the pilot’s metamorphosis, B’Elanna is about to clarify that the _Val Jean_ is not _her_ ship, when the pilot’s smirk returns: “But I’m happy to give my services to anything else of yours that wants attention as well, _tIqoy_.”

“ _petaQ_ ,” B’Elanna spits back, turning on her heel and heading down to her engine room, leaving Chakotay to deal with his pilot.

The rub is that, for all his abrasiveness, his promiscuity – the rumor mill has him rapidly sleeping his way through the more willing members of the _Val Jean_ ’s crew – and his unfailing arrogance, Tom Paris’s skills as a pilot turn out to be beyond reproach.

And she and Paris, as much as she is loath to admit it, work well together.

“That Cardi sloop is still gaining on us, Paris,” B’Elanna barks into the comm tube between the engine room and the helm, pushing away the overhead ‘scope as she does so.

“I can evade her, but there’s not much I can do about the distance without more power.”

B’Elanna curses. “The reserves are shot.”

There’s a pause and then, “What if we go into the ridges?”

“ _Into_ the ridges?” With ever changing peaks rising a half-league or more above the Ring’s surface, the ridges are to be avoided, not sought out.

“We’re sun-side of them; we’d be able to catch some extra photons –” if by ‘some’ you mean massive amounts; they’ll be lucky if they aren’t all blinded – “and they’d be crazy to follow us.”

It bothers her that she can clearly picture the feral grin accompanying that. “Crazy is one word for it.” The _Val Jean_ shudders as a Cardi shot strikes home. She sighs. “You really think you can navigate those ice mountains?”

“If you can keep the engines from blowing out from the photon influx, I’ll handle the mountains.” 

Which is a not insignificant “if”, but they’re out of options. “Fine. Take her in.”

Five minutes later, the engines have not flooded, the ship has not crashed into an ice ridge, the Cardi sloop – whose helmsman’s insanity apparently does not match Paris’s – has been shed and the _Val Jean_ is making ready to set down on the Jeraddo moonlet for repairs and restocking.  
  
Proceeded by a whoop of triumph, Kurt Bendera slides down the ladder into the engine room. “That was some fancy sailing there, Chief.”

“I wasn’t the one at the helm,” she points out.

Bendera just grins. “I’d say this one was a team effort.” She tries to scowl but suspects the effort fails: it had been a team effort and a good one. Kurt’s grin widens. “Come have a drink with me tonight to celebrate.”

B’Elanna hesitates: “I should really start in on the repairs…”

Kurt steps around the hanging ‘scope to grip her shoulders. “B’Elanna, we haven’t been dirtside in weeks. Come out and have a drink. It’ll be good for you.”

She’s still half-reluctant, but Kurt’s enthusiasm is infectious and she could use a break from the ship.

Bendera gives a second whoop of triumph at her nod of assent.

Even by Outer Rim standards, _Quark_ ’s is a dive. Dark, sticky, crowded – not the sort of place B’Elanna would normally choose to spend an evening. But, Kurt is good company and the closest thing she’s had to a friend in a while – unless you count Seska and B’Elanna is never entirely sure if she should. So she settles into a table in a relatively quiet corner of the bar with a clear view of the door – Jeraddo is officially neutral territory but you can never be too careful – while Bendera goes in search of his promised round of drinks.

Which is why, when Chakotay’s mercenary pilot walks into the bar, B’Elanna has a clear view of his wincing reaction to the scene before him. For a moment, something in his expression reminds her of that initial meeting on the _Val Jean_ ’s deck: he’d said she could trust him with the ship and hasn’t he made good on that promise?

Impulsively, B’Elanna rises from her seat, ready to invite the pilot to join her and Bendera in their celebratory drink when another figure breaks from the crowd to greet Paris where he still stands in the entryway. The dabo girl expertly twines herself around the pilot with obvious familiarity.

_Idiot,_ B’Elanna chides herself, retaking her seat.

“Everything okay?” Bendera asks, returning with a drink in each hand. He follows her line of sight to the entryway, but Paris and his companion have melted into the crowd.

“Absolutely.” The lie is thin but Kurt won’t call her on it. She gratefully takes the drink he offers. “To narrow escapes,” she intones before taking a long swallow.

…

It takes Tom a good hour to shed Krella: she can be persistent when she wants something and tonight she wants him. More than likely that’s because word has gotten around that he has somehow landed a paying gig, but with Krella you never know. That’s one of the things Tom actually rather likes about her, but tonight he isn’t in the mood.

He isn’t in the mood to be here at all, but this is where a prodigal ex-’Fleet willing-to-fly-for-anyone-who-will-pay-his-bar-bill pilot will be expected to be when his ship comes to port for the first time in weeks. And so here he is.

Nine days out of ten, Tom can play his role easily enough. Today just happens to be the tenth day.

He had found a seat at the edge of the bar: the Ferengi bartender can be relied upon to leave him alone as long as Tom keeps his tab running hot. He isn’t really sure he feels like drinking any more than he feels like sitting in a crowded bar, but it’s all part of the game.

Actually, he’s been nursing this particular tumbler of Bajoran ale for longer than he would have expected to have gone unnoticed by his avaricious host. Curious, he scans down the long bar, wondering where the Ferengi has gone. Halfway through his scan, Tom finds his answer in the form of a gold and black ‘Fleet uniform.

Despite his better judgment, Tom edges around the corner of the bar for a closer look. This isn’t the usual ‘Fleeter bar, even on the relatively rare occasions that a ‘Fleet ship docks on this Outer Rim shepherd moonlet. The preferred ‘Fleeter bar is across town — cleaner, less sticky and with fewer enterprising locals in attendance.

How had mister gold-and-black found his way here?

The answer, as Tom gets a better look, is painfully obvious: this ‘Fleeter, an ensign now that Tom can see pips, looks greener than grass. His uniform has barely been worn long enough to have softened its creases.

And this same information has not escaped the notice of the Ferengi bartender.

The kid is clearly flustered and completely out of his depth. As Tom watches, the Ferengi says something sharply and Ensign Green-as-Grass hastily pulls out his purse with one hand while waving an apology with the other.

Tom shouldn’t get involved; this is exactly the sort of attention he wants to avoid. Nonetheless, he finds himself drawing up beside the hapless ensign, his eyes tracking down to the case full of shiny, iridescent rocks open on the bar.

Tom’s eyebrows shoot up: that’s audacious, even for a Ferengi. “Moon stones? You’re trying to sell him moon stones?”

Swinging around toward Tom, the Ferengi scowls, his mouthful of sharp pointy teeth on full display. “I don’t recall asking your opinion on this _private_ transaction,” he growls, and, as best he can given his diminutive stature, the Ferengi leans across the bar, angling his body to cut between the two humans.

Rolling his eyes, Tom addresses the ‘Fleeter over the top of the large-lobed head. “You can find piles of these down by the river. They’re frog sh–”

“They are a byproduct of the digestive system of one of the indigenous amphibians,” the barkeeper interrupts, practically crawling on top of the bar to gain height. “A very exotic gift for your parents back home and a memento –”

“Ensign Kim!” The authoritative voice cuts through the general hubbub of the bar, followed by the owner of said voice, sporting command red and commander’s pips. “I thought it was made clear that junior officers were restricted to pre-designated locations while in port?”

Kim comes so sharply to attention that Tom honestly fears he might injure himself. “Sir, yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I must have gotten a little lost, sir.”

Apparently softened by the half-dozen or so ‘sirs’ Kim had managed to cram into his response, the commander smiles as he reaches the bar and claps the ensign on the shoulder. "No harm done, Kim, but you’d better come back with me." The commander doesn’t deign to give the Ferengi barkeeper so much as a glance, but his gaze does fall on Tom. His eyes narrow.

“Do I know you?”

And this is why he should never have gotten involved…

“I don’t think so,” Tom replies in a practiced drawl, shifting his posture just so. “But you could -- for the right price.” He quirks an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth in tandem.

Flushing and growling something less than complimentary, the commander turns on his heel, barking at Kim to follow him. Kim tries to stammer some…thanks? apology? farewell? before racing after his CO, but Tom has already turned his attention back to the bar and his host.

“I’ll settle up: looks like I’m pretty much done here.”  
  
  
...

The _Val Jean_ leaves Jeraddo plus one more crew member: a Vulcan weapons expert.

Seska is less than pleased with the addition. “Those green blooded bastards have no feelings. How could he understand our cause?”

Chakotay shrugs, watching his recruit inspect the _Val Jean_ ’s armaments with Ayala across the deck. Given Vulcans’ purported auditory prowess, he’d likely heard Seska’s remark – which likely Seska had fully intended. “Maybe our cause is logical?”

Seska seethes in response and is about to reply when Chakotay cuts her off: “Look, he’s a Vulcan. Vulcans don’t lie. We can trust his word and, right now, that’s good enough for me.”  
  
And so, when the _Val Jean_ goes back out onto the rings, it’s with Tuvok manning her rail guns.


	2. Chapter Two, in which things begin to go badly

_When a treaty had finally been struck, the terms had been simple, at least on paper: political control of the Tortoises would reside with the Twin Planet of closest proximity at a given point in the moon’s orbit. When a Tortoise’s languorous journey finally brought it through the orbital plane between the two worlds, political control would shift to the other Twin._

_It was a compromise, welcomed by none but accepted by all._

_Or almost all._

_Over the decades following the treaty, one Tortoise and then another passed into Cardassian orbit, and a generation that had only known Earth’s lenient political oversight became subjected to Cardassian autocracy. A resistance began to grow, slowly at first and then gaining momentum. Pirates and marauders began harrying Cardassian ships across the Rings, demanding autonomy for the Tortoises._

_Whatever their private feelings might have been, Earth’s politicians officially turned a blind eye to the resistance, ordering the planet’s ‘Fleet of ships to secure their own moons and not to meddle with other’s affairs._

When a ‘Fleet frigate shows up on the _Val Jean’s_ stern ‘scope two weeks out of Jeraddo, it’s not of immediate concern.

“Put some space between us,” Chakotay calls across from the ‘scope at the ship’s stern to the helm. “But don’t look like you’re putting some space between us.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Tom returns jauntily – too jauntily.

“Just fly the ship, Paris.”

After a half hour, however, the ‘Fleet ship remains stubbornly on the ‘scope.

“Paris?” Chakotay queries.

“They should be falling back. I’m not sure what to tell you.” All jauntiness is gone as Tom wrestles with the wheel, angling the _Val Jean_ in a sharp tack against the stream of photons reflected from the Rings.

Chakotay strides across the quarterdeck and steps up to the helm, crowding close behind Tom. “Aren’t you?”

Tom’s hands still on the wheel as he reads the danger in the captain’s quiet words.

“What are you saying, Chakotay?”

Their exchange has already drawn an audience on the main deck below. Chakotay calls down to Dalby who climbs up to take the wheel. Paris hesitates a moment before reluctantly relinquishing the helm. Then, he turns to fully face Chakotay, folding his arms across his chest.

“What would you say – you, pilot that you are, Paris – what would you say is the most likely explanation for why that ‘Fleet frigate is still on our tail?”

Tom looks upward, drawing in a breath. Then, he replies: “They have a tracking beacon on us.”

“And, how, Paris, would a ‘Fleet ship have gotten a tracking beacon on this ship?”

“That I don’t know.”

“Perhaps,” Chakotay suggests, “they sent it onboard with an ex-’Fleeter mercenary who wouldn’t think twice before selling out his own mother for enough money to cover his next bar bill and maybe a cheap whore for the night?”

A half dozen pistols can be heard cocking across the _Val Jean_ ’s deck.

Tom lets his arms fall to his sides. He shifts his weight to his toes, ready to move for all the good that it will do him: there’s nowhere to run. “I suppose it was always going to come to this,” he acknowledges, surprising himself at the real regret in his words.

Chakotay raises an eyebrow and draws his own pistol. "I suppose it was.”

Tom’s jaw tightens as he awaits the inevitable.

“Captain Chakotay, I am afraid you are in error.”

The two men turn together towards the intruder: the Vulcan weapons officer is climbing the short flight of stairs to the quarterdeck slowly and deliberately, hands raised to show his lack of armament.

“Tuvok?” Chakotay queries.

“It was I who brought the tracking beacon aboard the _Val Jean_.” Tuvok’s voice holds all of his race’s famed equanimity. “It is my duty to inform you that I am an officer of the ‘Fleet and, as such, I am placing you and your crew under arrest for piracy and disruption of interplanetary peace.”

Tom watches Chakotay’s brows climb to his hairline at this pronouncement. The captain gives an exaggerated survey of the various weaponry on display, its aim now evenly divided between the pilot and the Vulcan. “Arresting us? Are you now?”

“Indeed,” Tuvok intones. “By order of –”

“Captain!” Hogan’s shout from the stern ‘scope cuts the Vulcan off. “They’re overtaking us!”

Instinctively, Tom moves for the helm, but an unyielding hand on his shoulder stops him: Ayala, who had followed Tuvok up onto the quarterdeck.

“The hell they are,” snaps back Chakotay. “All hands man battle stations. Ayala,” the captain spits over to the quietly imposing man, “tie these two _kheet’agh_ up and throw them in the hold for now. Then get back up here to man the guns.”

Ayala nods a silent response before efficiently gathering up his charges. Tuvok submits quietly, but Tom struggles against his hold, calling back to Chakotay, “That’s a ‘Fleet frigate! You’re going to want me at the helm if you’re going to get through this!”

Chakotay’s scornful glance is his only response.  
  


…

_The tall ships made good use of their bright highway, collecting the photonic energy reflected by the Rings into their full sails._

_Some of those amassed photons were channeled to ships’ solar engines and gravity generators. Others fueled the life-sustaining bubble of atmosphere engulfing each vessel. Still others energized the magnetic field generated by the great conductor running through each ship’s main mast. That field prevented the ship’s atmosphere bubble from being stripped away by the everyday ravages of solar winds._

_When those solar winds began to build, however, the tall ships would quickly seek harbor in the protective magnetosphere of the nearest moon or planet, sheltering until the storm had passed and it was safe to venture back out onto the Rings._

_Those ships foolish enough to be caught out in a solar storm were rarely heard from again._   
  


Several minutes and a couple of near misses from the ‘Fleeter’s main cannon later, the _Val Jean_ ’s engines whine in shrill protest as the helm executes yet another sudden starboard jibe. Cursing, B’Elanna flips open the comm to the helm. “Paris, what the hell are you doing up there? The ‘Fleeters aren’t going to have to worry about taking us out if you do their work for them.”

“Sorry about that, Torres,” comes back a voice that is definitely not Tom Paris.

It takes B’Elanna a second to place its ownership: “Dalby? What in the name of _Ghe’’or_ are you doing at the wheel? Get Paris now!”

“Can’t do that, Chief. Captain had him tied up and thrown in the hold.” Even bouncing down the comm tube, the edge of satisfaction in Dalby’s reply is unmistakable.

"What? Now?!? Why?”

“Little busy to talk right now,” and the _Val Jean_ shudders violently in agreement as one of the ‘Fleet ship’s forward guns finds its mark.

The engineer lets loose a series of multi-lingual invectives as she slams the comm closed.

“Chief, you’d better come see this…”

Another cannon blast rattles too close to the ship, and B’Elanna lurches over to where Jor is staring with horror at the solar scope.

“What now–” B’Elanna cuts off as she peers into the ‘scope and then instinctively draws back. “Fucking hells!” She rounds on the other woman. “Where did that come from? And how are we just seeing it?”

Jor flinches. “I’m sorry – I’ve never seen one moving so fast. By the time I spotted it…”

B’Elanna waves her off, looking back through the ‘scope. The mechanic is right: the massive solar storm is approaching faster than any she’s ever witnessed. 

“This is not good.” Tearing her eyes away from their approaching doom, B’Elanna makes some quick calculations. “Ten minutes?” she throws in Jor’s direction.

“That was my estimate,” Jor replies miserably.

“ _ghay’cha_!’” B’Elanna flings herself back to the comm about to call up to the helm before she remembers whom she would be calling. “ _QI’yah_!”

She makes a decision.

“What are you doing?” Panicked, Jor grabs at her leg as the engineer jumps up the ladder to climb out of the engine room.

“About the last thing I want to do, but it’s the only chance we have,” B’Elanna shoots back. Then, she pauses, sparing her second a quick glance of reassurance: “Hold her together for five minutes, Jor. I’ll be back.”

The _Val Jean_ is not a large ship, but every inch of B’Elanna’s short journey to the cargo hold is hard won as the vessel continues to shudder under the dual stress of the ‘Fleet frigate’s assault and Dalby’s piloting. It takes well over half of her allotted five minutes before she is able to unceremoniously lurch down the ladder into the hold.

Two men sprawl among the ship’s supplies, tied hand and foot.

Seeing her, Paris’s evident surprise quickly transforms into his usual smug grin. “Miss me already, Torres? I’m not sure this is the place…”

She doesn’t have time for his games: “There is a class nine solar storm less than ten minutes out.” She draws a breath, watching as the pilot’s persona again shifts before her: it’s now or never. “Can I still trust you to fly this ship?”

Some emotion passes across Paris’s expression, too brief for B’Elanna to read. He holds her eyes as he answers, “Yes, ma’am.”

Satisfied, she nods, pulling her _taj_ from its sheath on her thigh.

“If you intend to retake the helm,” the previously silent second occupant of the hold breaks in, “you’ll need my assistance.”

Paris’s eyebrows climb. “No offense, Tuvok, but you sold us out to the ‘Fleet.” B’Elanna, at work on the roughly tied ropes around the pilot’s wrists, shoots a look between the two men. Whether she is more startled at Paris’s use of the inclusive pronoun or the Vulcan’s revealed treachery, even she isn’t sure. “Why should we trust you?”

“You should not,” the Vulcan replies. "However, for now, our objectives coincide. And,” he adds, “if those objectives are not met, there will be no ‘later’ with which to concern ourselves.”

Paris, now free from his restraints, turns to B’Elanna and shrugs. “The man has a point, but: your mutiny, your choice.”

B’Elanna allows herself three precious seconds to give the pilot an infuriated glare – not that his description of the situation isn’t accurate – before stepping over to slice through the Vulcan’s bindings.

“You’ve got five minutes to get control of that wheel or we’re all dead.”


	3. Chapter Three, in which things get worse

“I don’t suppose you have a plan?” As their liberator dashes back toward her engine room, Tom turns to his unexpected accomplice.

Tuvok doesn’t shrug – probably because shrugging isn’t in the rather limited library of Vulcan non-verbal communication.   
  
"My understanding was that I am to assist you in your mission, Mr. Paris, not,” and there is that Vulcan all-purpose raised brow, “vice versa.”

Tom is decidedly not Vulcan and therefore does shrug, even as he begins to make his way up the ladder and out of the hold. “Couldn’t hurt to ask.”

The _Val Jean_ lurches as they climb past the lower deck and the lighting along the narrow corridor sputters and blackens. “Well that can’t be good,” Tom mutters, redoubling his pace up the ladder, Tuvok at his heels, literally. 

The two men emerge onto the loosely organized chaos of the _Val Jean_ ’s main deck mid-battle. Looking out to the starboard, Tom can see that that ‘Fleet vessel has drawn even, but Dalby has pushed the frigate to swing to the shadow-casting side of the smaller _Val Jean_. The maneuver has forced the ‘Fleet pilot to keep distance between the two ships in order for the frigate to continue to fill its sails and maintain its speed – not quite enough distance to prevent the ‘Fleet railguns from peppering the _Val Jean_ however. 

“Perhaps we should make out way to the helm?” Tuvok suggests evenly, shaking Tom from his momentary inaction.

“Right,” he agrees. “Let’s go,” and then he adds, probably unnecessarily, “stay low.”

The two men dart across the length of the main deck, staying close to cover until they are crouched at the foot of the quarterdeck. Above them, Dalby is alone at the ship’s wheel, his full attention on maintaining distance from the ‘Fleet ship.

And here’s the catch because, while Tom has by necessity learned some street fighting skills over the last couple of years, he knows he is not close to a match for Dalby – and this is going to need to be quick.

“Ideas?” he asks his companion.

“Indeed,” Tuvok replies, standing and climbing up to the man at the helm without hesitation. Before the other man has even registered his presence, Tuvok places a hand on his neck and Dalby crumples to the deck.

“Nice,” Tom remarks followed by, “Shit!” as he lunges up the stairs and grabs at the wheel which, without other guidance, has begun to spin wildly. He catches the spokes and, with no little effort, steadies the wheel and, with it, the ship.

Around the deck, the crew continues their battle efforts, apparently unaware of the temporary loss and then transfer of control: a small boon from Dalby’s general ineptness as a pilot no doubt.

Tom slaps open the comm to the engine room. “Torres, I’m here. What are you seeing?”  
  


…

In the engine room, B’Elanna bites back an immediate and unhelpful response of, “Not much.”

Despite her repeated exhortations to do so, Chakotay had never fitted the _Val Jean_ ’s engine room with emergency lighting. Deep in the bowels of the ship, the room had been plunged into utter darkness when the main illumination had gone out. After a couple minutes of stumbling and cursing, she and Jor had found a couple of lanterns to remedy the situation, but only very slightly.

But she doesn’t need ship’s illumination to see through the ‘scopes.

“Switch with me,” B’Elanna barks at Jor, “and keep that communication line open.”

The other woman complies without protest: whether she knows whom B’Elanna has reinstated at the helm or not, the engineering chief doesn’t really know. Nor does she care right now.

She grabs the solar ‘scope and peers in, again having to quell that instinct to draw back from the impending doom before her.

“It’s at least a couple thousand leagues wide,” she yells in the direction of the open comm tube, eyes still on the ‘scope, “and it is will be on top of us in - " she calculates - “thirty seconds.”

Paris’s immediate response is in a language with which B’Elanna is unfamiliar, but his sentiment needs no translation. “We’re not going to be able to avoid it then.”

B’Elanna’s stomachs drop: she had already known that really, but she had held out some hope that Paris would have a rabbit to pull out of his bag of tricks.

“We’re going to have to ride it out.”

She’d known that too. “There’s no way the ship’s magnetic field can deal with the levels of radiation from a class nine storm.”

“Unless we supercharge it.”

“Supercharge it?” Surely she’d heard that wrong. She lurches back to the comm tube. “Supercharge it with what, Paris?”

“The front edge of that storm is chock-full of charged particles right? We can…”

“…uncouple the mast’s magnetic field conductor and build up your supercharge,” B’Elanna finishes, nodding now. “It won’t last long but if we release it at just the right moment…”

“…we might make it through the radiation surge.”

B’Elanna chews at her lower lip, calculations running through her head. “I’m going to need you to stay at the front edge of the storm as long as possible.”

“On it already.” She can feel the shift in the _Val Jean_ ’s pitch as Paris pushes her for more speed.

“And it’s going to be a rough ride when that full storm hits.”

“You keep that field up, and I’ll get us through.”

As plans go, this one rates pretty far up there on the scale of insanity, but once again they have little choice. B’Elanna reaches across the main engineering board for the needed lever. “Uncoupling the conductor now. We’ll need at least a full minute at the front edge to build enough charge.”

“Dump whatever we have in the reserves into the engines.” 

“Done.” For whatever meager help it will be.

Back at the ‘scope, Jor shouts, “The front edge will be on us in five, four, three, two, one –“

B’Elanna stumbles back as the _Val Jean_ kicks forward, carried by the momentum of the storm. She grabs back at the board, focusing on the gauges from the magnetic conductor. “It’s working!” she yells into the comm over the scream of the protesting engines. “We’ve got an electrostatic charge building at both poles of the mast.” She turns to her second. “How much time do we have?”

“Twenty seconds until the main storm hits!”

B’Elanna checks the gauges again before pounding a fist against the console. “Not enough. Paris!” She can only hope that he can hear her. “You’ve got to give us a few more seconds!”

She can’t hear his reply, but she can feel the _Val Jean_ respond, tilting just a fraction more to give a few more precious seconds.

“Radiation surge in eight seconds.”

B’Elanna resists the urge to look again at the conductor gauges: whatever they have is what they’re going to get.

“Surge in three, two…”

She throws the level to recouple the field conductor, grabs at the console with both hands and screams to Jor, “Hold on!”

And the _Val Jean_ is swept up into the heart of the storm.


	4. Chapter Four, in which pirating happens

_The Twin Planets are a crowded system: crowded with planets, with moons, with rings, with life…and crowded with light._

_With so many in-system bodies reflecting the light of the sun at all angles and hours, a truly dark sky over a planet or moon is a rare event. There are those who will make it a lifetime’s quest to find such a sky and to see beyond the Twins, reaching out towards the stars.  
  
  
_

“Hey, Chief, wake up!”

B’Elanna groans, but her eyes remain stubbornly closed. Two hands grasp her shoulders and shake, none too gently. “Come on, Torres. Time to rejoin the living.”

Bendera, she belatedly realizes. What is he doing here?

Actually, where is here anyway?

She sits up and opens her eyes – both too quickly. She groans again. “What the hell happened?”

“To you?” Kurt asks, putting a hand on her back to steady her. “Looks like you hit your head on something. Or something hit you on the head. Tough to tell which.”

She grimaces, her fingers gingerly working along her scalp until she finds the evidence of a too sudden encounter with some solid object: the solar ‘scope most likely. She’s always bumping her head on that thing, even without…

The solar ‘scope. The solar storm.

“What about the ship? The crew?” She tries to stand and manages with Kurt’s assistance. “What happened?”

Bendera gives a thin smile. “Everyone’s alive,” he assures. “You and Jor seem to have gotten the worst of it down here.” Quelling a wave of nausea, B’Elanna peers into the darkness of the engine room beyond Kurt’s lantern. “Jor’s in the mess now. She’s got a broken arm – Chell and Henley are working on setting it. As for the rest,” he shrugs, “I was hoping you could tell me.”

B’Elanna blinks hard, trying to gather her thoughts. “There was a solar storm.”

“We gathered that much.”

“It was a class nine. We didn’t see it until it was almost on top of us and then…” she trails off. “Then…I’m not really sure.”

Bendera gives her an odd look. “Maybe we should head up to the deck? If you think you can move?”

B’Elanna stands up a little straighter, moving away from his support. Satisfied, she nods. “Let’s go.”

The ladder up to the main deck is as dark as the engine room, but they are able to make their way with the aid of the lantern. Glancing back down at her way with an expression that B’Elanna still can’t quite read, Bendera disappears out onto the deck above. 

Following close behind him, B’Elanna scrambles onto the deck, looks up and gasps.

The sky above the _Val Jean_ is filled with stars.  
  
  


…

“Let’s try this one more time, Paris,” Chakotay’s voice carries from the quarterdeck and tears B’Elanna’s attention from the view above her. “How did you get out of the hold, untied and back at my helm?”

“Walking, mostly? A bit of stumbling? Dalby wasn’t exactly holding the ship steady.”

The full crew seems to have gathered on the quarterdeck, lending an audience to the confrontation. B’Elanna mounts the stairs and begins to push her way through the small crowd.

“What about you, Vulcan? Anything to add?”

“Mr. Paris’s report was quite accurate.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

B’Elanna hears the growl in Chakotay’s voice and the cocking of his pistol. She shoves her way past Gerron and Hogan. “Wait! It was me.”

Chakotay freezes at her words, pistol still leveled squarely at Paris. B’Elanna looks between the captain and her erstwhile conspirators: Paris and Tuvok look rather like they’ve been in a bar fight – and lost – but both are standing unassisted. For now.

“It was me,” she repeats, stepping up on the helm’s dais to be on level with Chakotay. “We needed Paris at the helm, and so I let them go.”

Chakotay turns his gaze in her direction, though his weapon’s aim doesn’t waiver from Paris’s chest. “You let them go? You did?”   
  


The words are soft and dangerous, and, half-Klingon heritage be damned, B’Elanna feels a shiver run up her spine.   
  


“Don’t listen to her—”

  
“Look, Chakotay —”

  
“Chakotay!” Seska’s voice cuts over both Paris’s and her own as the Bajoran pushes through the gathered crew to Chakotay, ‘scope in hand. “The ‘Fleet ship: she’s still out there.”

  
“What? Where?” Chakotay grabs Seska’s offered ‘scope, motioning to the again conscious Dalby to cover Paris and Tuvok. Dalby steps forward to the task with more enthusiasm than is strictly necessary.

  
“Sixty degrees off the port bow. Maybe a handful of leagues out. Looks like she’s drifting.” 

  
Chakotay’s eyes flash, possibilities presenting themselves. “Show me,” and he follows Seska as she leads the way down the quarterdeck stairs.

  
B’Elanna hesitates, torn between her desire to follow and assess the situation for herself and worry at the murderous glare and pistol that Dalby continues to level at Paris.

  
“I’ll watch Dalby.” Bendera has made his way to her side, and his words are for her ears only. “Go.”

  
Surprised, she catches Bendera’s eye. He gives her a bare, grim smile and she nods, heading after Seska and Chakotay.

  
By the time she catches up, Chakotay is squinting through the ‘scope at what, to B’Elanna’s unaided eye, is little more than a bright smudge in space. 

  
But, that smudge isn’t what grabs her attention nor what causes her breath to catch in her throat.

  
Beyond the smudge, so far beyond that the two planets and their rings blend together in her sight to appear to be a mammoth star, she sees the Twin Planets.

  
They are so screwed.

  
“They’re adrift alright,” Chakotay confirms. “I can’t see much more from here but she’s listing badly.” He pulls the ‘scope down from his eye and notices B’Elanna’s presence. He seems unsurprised if not exactly thrilled to find her there.

  
“Do you think you can get us there?” He gestures toward the ‘Fleet ship, handing her the ‘scope. That soft, dangerous edge in his voice remains.

  
B’Elanna steps forward and takes the ‘scope to better assess the distance to the other ship. 

  
The _Val Jean_ isn’t interplanetary and was never meant to fly in the darkness of space. Her sails will be all but useless without the light of the rings.

  
B’Elanna calculates the distance again, figures in the scant power of the extra-atmospheric thrusters. With inertia they might just be able to do it — but they won’t get a second chance.

  
“I can get us there,” she confirms, hoping she sounds more confident than she is.

  
Chakotay nods, his demeanor still devoid of any warmth, and turns to Seska. “Tell the crew to ready for boarding. We’re going to take that ‘Fleet frigate.”

  
B’Elanna grabs his arm as he makes to follow Seska back toward the crew and then flinches away as he rounds on her. Still, “The ‘Fleeters…we’re going to need their help if we are going to get out of this.”

  
“I know that,” Chakotay grounds out.

  
“Boarding them—”

  
“—will ensure that we will be in control of the terms of our...cooperation.” He’s fairly bristling with impatience. “Anything else?”

  
She feels her own temper flare: sure, she’s responsible for the mess they’re in, but she’s also the reason they’re still alive. “I‘ll need Paris at the helm.”

  
If she thought his voice was cold before, it’s now ice: “You get me.”

  
“Then we’re as good as dead.”

  
B’Elanna sees the movement and braces herself for the blow that she is sure is coming, but Chakotay stills himself, spitting on the deck instead.

  
“Fine.”

  
She gives the captain a healthy head start before moving away from the rail to start back to the helm, willfully focusing on the calculations in her head and not Chakotay’s retreating form.

  
...

“Paris, ease her just a touch starboard — no more than five degrees.”

  
B’Elanna watches through the engine room ‘scope as the ‘Fleet ship shifts, coming into alignment. “Right there...Got it! Now we just drift in.”

  
It’s Chakotay who responds through the comm: “Good. Now get up here, Torres. We’ll need you to make sure the ‘Fleet ship is stabilized once we’re aboard.” 

  
B’Elanna bites back a retort. The captain must have been standing behind Paris the whole time, probably literally with a pistol to his back. “Heading up now,” she replies with all the evenness she can muster before slapping the comm tube closed. 

  
The boarding team has assembled on deck: the full crew save Jor who is still recovering in her berth. Neelix is flapping around overhead with his usual pre-pirating excitement. Seska has pulled Chakotay to one side, but their discussion, intentionally or not, is easily overheard by all.

  
“Are you really going to bring them across?” she hisses, gesturing at Paris and Tuvok, bound again and held in Dalby’s rough grip.

  
Chakotay looks in no better mood than he had been an hour earlier. “What’s the alternative? Leaving them here?” 

  
Taken aback, Seska’s expression melts into a near pout, but Chakotay has already moved on, shouting orders to extend the atmo bubble and throw the grappling hooks.

  
The _Val Jean_ slides smoothly into position beside the much larger ‘Fleet vessel, mere yards between the two ships. B’Elanna’s eyes flick over to where Paris stands, visibly bruised and wrists bound together. He meets her eyes and, despite everything, a grin ghosts across his face: two bits of near impossible flying in one day.

  
The grapples catch and Ayala and Bendera put their weight behind the capstans to pull the two ships together. Timed down to the second, the pirate’s vanguard leap the remaining distance, storming the ‘Fleet ship on Chakotay’s command. 

  
B’Elanna follows behind, suddenly aware that she is not carrying a weapon, other than her _taj_. Usually she would be, but in the rush of the last hour, she hadn’t thought to grab her pistol.

  
She wonders if it is still in her berth where she left it or if Chakotay has seen fit to repossess it.

  
B’Elanna watches to make sure that Dalby transfers his prisoners safely across the now narrow gap between the two ships before turning to see her shipmates’ progress. 

  
Instead of the nascent battle she’s expecting, she sees a single ‘Fleet officer, dressed in a gold and black uniform, standing on the deck, hands raised as the pirates surround him.

  
“Don’t shoot!” His voice sounds impossibly young, its steadiness coming at a clear cost. “My name is Ensign Harry Kim, acting commander of the Earth ‘Fleet ship, _Voyager_. We surrender!”

...

Tom Paris’s day is not going well.

  
To be fair, he’s still alive, which, given everything, seems an unlikely outcome of the day thus far. However, given the way that Dalby continues to eye him, he’s more than convinced that bit of luck will be temporary.

  
And the particular gold and black uniformed ensign who meets the _Val Jean’s_ crew on the deck of the ‘Fleet frigate — the _Voyager_ , apparently — seems to further ensure Tom’s soon-to-be demise.

  
Despite Dalby’s bulk at his back, Tom does his best to slink into the shadows.

  
“Our atmo bubble was sheared off when the radiation surge hit,” Kim’s words are falling over each other in his rush to get the explanation out. Given the number of pirate pistols aimed in his direction, Tom doesn’t blame the kid. “Most of the crew is dead; the Captain needs help. Please...”

  
The kid’s words choke off at the plea. Tom looks at Chakotay, trying to read the other man.

  
Chakotay makes a slight motion, and the pirates relax their stances. Pistols are still pointed in Kim’s direction, but the menace is gone. Chakotay takes a step toward the ensign, his own weapon lowering. “The atmo bubble? What’s its status now?” The question carries a command but no threat.

  
“Patched for now,” Kim reports, and Tom can almost hear him biting back the reflexive ‘sir’.

  
“Good enough.” Chakotay nods. Then announces to the deck at large: “I hereby liberate the _Voyager_ to serve the cause of freedom for Dorvan and its allied moons.” The political niceties of the announcement are _pro forma_ at best given their current circumstances but the point, and the change in command, has been made.

  
Chakotay turns back to Kim. “Where is the remaining crew? Your captain?”

  
Kim is visibly sagging with relief at having someone else to take charge of the situation. “There are only a half dozen of us still alive, other than Captain Janeway.” Desperation returns to Kim’s voice: “Please, do you have a doctor or anyone with medical training? Our doctor was killed and the Captain is in bad shape.”

  
Tom gives it a long five count, hoping someone else will volunteer a previously unknown talent for healing before, reluctantly, he lifts his bound hands. “I have some.”

  
Kim’s flash of recognition as Tom steps forward is as predictable as it is unmistakable. When the ensign follows on cue with, “I know you! You’re the —”, Tom doesn’t even flinch as a half dozen pistols swing their aim from Kim’s chest to his own.

  
“Bastard! I knew he was a traitor,” Seska hisses, stepping towards Tom.

  
To Tom’s surprise, Chakotay grabs her arm, halting her progress. “Later.” He turns to Tom, face unreadable. “You can help Janeway?”

  
Truthfully, Tom has no idea. His medic training is basic at best. But, if it gets him through another half-hour… Tom nods.

  
“Hey, Torres—”: Kurt Bendera’s voice from the other side of the deck. Tom watches as the man fumbles through the inner pockets of his jacket and pulls out a small device which he then flips over to the nearby engineer. “Give that a look. I won it in a card game: fellow said it was some sort of photonic medical thingamajig, but I could never get it to work. Maybe it will help?”

  
Torres frowns as she examines the object in her hands. 

  
“Um, maybe I could help?” Kim is half raising his hand. “Applied photonics is my specialty and —”

  
Chakotay cuts him off with a look. “Fine. Kim, take Paris and Torres down to Janeway. Torres, see if you and Kim can get Bendera’s toy working. Bendera, go with them.” He turns to the rest of his crew. “Ayala and Dalby, grab any ‘Fleeters still alive and get them to a secure location, along with Mr. Tuvok. The rest of you — let’s see what we’re working with.”


	5. Chapter Five, in which some wounds are mended

Had someone told Harry that morning that the high point of his day would be handing his ship over to a band of pirates, he would have declared the idea impossibly absurd. 

Which, in hindsight, would have shown a deficit in nightmarish imagination on his part.

Which might not be all bad because, right now, that same deficit seems to be keeping him from picturing exactly what had happened on _Voyager_ ’s exposed upper decks while Harry carried Captain Janeway, injured by one of the pirate ship’s canon blasts, down to the safety of the ship’s infirmary.

By the time _Voyager_ had ridden out the storm and he and Vorik managed to restore the ship’s atmo bubble, those decks were empty. The bodies of the ship’s crew -- as well as anything else not nailed -- down had been left far in the vessel’s wake.

Harry’s mind stops there, refusing to probe further. 

Better - or at least easier - to deal with the problems directly in front of him. Or behind him.

“So, how do you know our friend Paris here?” The overly casual question comes from the oldest of the three pirates following Harry down the narrow lower-deck corridor.

Harry glances back, then gives up on getting a better read on the situation and answers honestly: “I don’t really. He helped me out of an…entanglement with a Ferengi barkeeper on Jeraddo. But I didn’t even know his name until now.” He twists back to catch the eye of the younger, taller man. “Paris, is it?”

“Tom Paris,” the other man nods, raising his bound hands with an ironic twist of a smile. “Good to meet you.” Then he turns to the first speaker: “I don’t suppose that allays any of your concerns, Bendera?”

“I’m not the one you need to convince.” The first man’s voice is not unsympathetic.

They reach the end of the corridor and the door to the infirmary. Harry unlocks the door — locking it had been the only feeble measure of protection he could offer his unconscious captain should the pirates choose not to accept his honorable surrender — and ushers those following into the small room.

Captain Janeway lies where he left her, her unnaturally pale skin contrasting against the bloody gash on her forehead. Harry stills himself, watching until he sees the slight rise and fall of her chest. 

At least she’s still breathing.

With a soft invective, the Klingon woman – Torres, the pirate captain had called her up on the deck - pulls a knife from somewhere on her person and takes a step toward Paris before hesitating, turning her attention to the other man — Beneris, was it?

“Your call, Kurt,” she says as she offers the knife to him.

‘Kurt’ takes the knife, giving Torres a sympathetic grin. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Chief. Chakotay’s more than halfway to seeing that for himself.”

Torres’s expression leads Harry to believe that she is unconvinced by this vague reassurance, whatever it means.

Kurt, in the meantime, has crossed over to Paris. He holds up the knife. “So, what do you think, Paris? Can you be trusted?”

Paris’s jaw stiffens. “That’s a hard recommendation to give, Bendera: it’s been a while since I’ve trusted myself.”

The corner of Kurt’s mouth twists up as the knife cuts through the ropes. Paris’s brows rise in surprise. “I can live with that answer,” is Kurt’s explanation, which sounds utterly nonsensical to Harry’s ears.

He wonders just what sort of lunatics he’s turned his ship over to.

Still, the alacrity with which Paris then turns toward his patient and the gentle competence with which he begins to examine her injuries is reassuring.

“Kim, right?” Torres beckons to him, as she crouches down to peer at the disc-shaped device that she’s placed on the other examination bed. “Come take a look at this.”

Eager to tackle a purely technical puzzle, Harry joins her. He leans down to look more closely at the disc. “This looks like it could be Zimmerman’s work,” he says, half to himself.

“Zimmerman?” Torres repeats, frowning and rotating the device slightly.

“Yeah, he was a teacher at the ‘Fleet Academy,” Harry explains, reaching out to tentatively touch the device. “Always had side projects in photonics going on…”

Beside him, Torres snorts. “Yes. I’m very familiar with Professor Zimmerman.”

Startled, Harry pauses his examination. “You were at the Academy?”

The Klingon grimaces, reaching around his hand to fiddle with something. “For almost a full year before --”

Light flashes up from the disc and a holographic image of a man, about two feet in height is projected up to appear to be standing on the examination bed.

“Please state the nature of the medical emergency.”

“Nice!” Despite the unimaginable clusterfuck of a day, despite his Captain still lying unconscious ten feet away, Harry finds himself grinning. He passes his hand through the hologram, watching the image separate and then reform. “Definitely Zimmerman’s work.”

The hologram frowns. “Please desist from disrupting the holographic matrix. And,” with no small level of pique, “please state the nature of the medical emergency.”

Torres leans forward. “It’s interactive.”

“Of course I’m interactive,” the hologram replies testily. “A non-interactive Emergency Medical Hologram would hardly be of much use.”

“Emergency Medical Hologram?” Harry questions.

The hologram sighs. “Yes, Emergency Medical Hologram or EMH if you prefer. Please tell me you fully read the manual before activating the EMH?” Harry glances at Torres who shrugs. The EMH sighs again. “The EMH is fully interactive and has incorporated the complete medical library of the Nine World Medical Consortium, including anatomical and physiological knowledge of all known sentient species. Now,” it pauses for emphasis, “please state the nature of the medical emergency. Assuming,” the voice changes to a grumble, “there even is one.”

“Yes, there is a medical emergency.” Torres recovers from the EMH’s tirade a beat before Harry. “This ship’s captain has been injured and is unconscious.”

The EMH glances around its limited field of vision. “Well, where is she?” Holographic eyes roll. “Fully interactive: if you take me to the patient, I will be able to conduct a visual examination.”

Torres blinks and then gingerly picks up the disc, the EMH’s image still projected above her hand. Shuffling around the bed, she moves to give the hologram a view of where Paris still hovers over Janeway, cleaning the gash on her brow. Paris looks up, blinking at the hologram. “The photonic medical device, I presume?”

The hologram bristles. “I am an Emergency Medical Hologram and,” turning towards Torres, “if you would place me on the floor at the patient’s bedside I will be able to conduct a proper examination – as you would know had you bothered to read the manual.” It turns its attention back to Paris. “Clearly you could use the help.”

Paris raises his hands, not arguing the point, and Torres, with a shrug, sets the disc on the floor beside the bed. 

The hologram shimmers and then expands, reforming as a full sized man. 

“Ah! Much better!” The EMH rolls back its shoulders and stretches its neck, clearly pleased with its new state. “Now, let’s get to work, shall we?”

...

“Captain’s coming.”

Roused from the half-sleep into which she’d been slipping, B’Elanna straightens at Bendera’s warning. She tries to decide if she’s supposed to look like she’s guarding the prisoners or is herself a guarded prisoner and then gives up: the next move on this one is Chakotay’s.

At the doorway, Kurt steps aside so that the captain can enter the already crowded infirmary. Chakotay’s eyes sweep the room, pausing only for a moment on the unexpected hologram before landing on the unconscious woman lying on the examination bed. “How is she?”

Before anyone else can respond, the EMH jumps in: “Despite the inferior training of my corporeal assistant —” Paris lets out an exasperated sigh — “the patient has been stabilized and can expect a full recovery.”

Chakotay rubs his jaw. “Good.” B’Elanna wonders if it is: two captains on one ship seems problematic at best. “Will you...” Chakotay hesitates, clearly unsure how to address the hologram.

“‘Doctor’ will do,” supplies the EMH, adding an irritated: “Did no one bother to read the manual?”

“Will you...Doctor...need further assistance with her care?”

“A corporeal assistant will be needed to provide satisfactory care, yes. However,” the Doctor glances disdainfully at Paris, “that assistant can be anyone with an ability to follow clear directions and who shows a respect for medical authority.”

“Right.” Chakotay nods. “Bendera, take these two –” he nods to Paris and Kim - “and secure them in quarters. Then grab Chell and bring him back to assist the Doctor.” Kurt nods. “B’Elanna?” B’Elanna looks up, blinking at their apparent return to a first name basis. “Let’s go talk.”

She follows Chakotay blindly back through _Voyager’_ s dim lower decks. The low lights are doing nothing to ward off the fatigue that is threatening to overwhelm her.

“In here,” Chakotay directs, sliding a door open to a small room equipped with a cot and other necessities. B’Elanna glances at the door: no visible lock. Not a cell then.

“What’s here?” she asks, stepping in.

“Your quarters, if you’d like.” She turns toward him, confused. He shrugs. “It’s a big ship: more than enough private quarters for all the officers.”

B’Elanna laughs. “Officers?” There are, and never will be, officers aboard Chakotay’s ship.

Chakotay grins. “Well, chief engineers then.”

Which brings them to it: “I wasn’t sure if that position was still mine.”

The grin fades and Chakotay nods, straightening and crossing his arms. “Are you sleeping with him?”

Which is not what she had been expecting. “Wait…what? Who?”

“Paris.” Chakotay’s eyebrow lifts fractionally, but he is otherwise rock still. “Are you sleeping with him?”

“ _baQa’,_ no!” she spits out. “Not,” she adds through gritted teeth, “that it is any of your business.”

“It is when you conspire with him to take over my ship.”

“I saved your ship!”

“That remains to be seen.”

B’Elanna’s anger flares, and she is vaguely aware that her hand is clutched around the knife hilt at her thigh. She forces herself to breathe. “What the hell is this really about, Chakotay?”

Coming to some decision, Chakotay unfolds his arms. “Loyalties,” he answers simply. “I need to know where yours are.”

The implied question shocks her more than it probably should. “With you. Where else would they be?”

The captain gives her one more searching look then nods, satisfied. “Then you’ll keep the position? And the quarters?”

She nods in return, trying to ignore the wave of relief flooding her gut.

“Good, because we’ll need you to get out of this mess,” Chakotay finishes as he turns to leave.

And gods she wishes she could let him leave on that, but she calls after him, “We’re going to need Paris too.” Chakotay swings back, his jaw working. B’Elanna sighs inwardly but continues, “He’s the only pilot with enough skill to get us home.”

His jaw still clenched, Chakotay nods shortly, then turns again before stopping in the doorway.

“As a friend though?” At his words, B’Elanna looks up. “I’d stay out of his bed.” Her eyes flash, and Chakotay holds up a hand. “You might trust him with the ship, but I wouldn’t trust him further than that.”

“As a friend, I might give you the same advice about Seska,” B’Elanna shoots back.

Chakotay grimaces. “As a friend, you’d probably be right,” he acknowledges and then he walks off, leaving B’Elanna to collapse onto the bed — her bed — and surrender to sleep.


	6. Epilogue

The climb up to the crow’s nest is a heady one: it’s been a while since B’Elanna’s been on a frigate, and she’d forgotten just how very tall they are. And, the view as she climbs is breathtaking.

She’d been a child when she had last seen so many stars, traveling with her mother on a pilgrimage to the Klingon homeworld, So many things about that trip she’d tried to forget, but the stars had a treasured place in her memories.

“Beyond words, isn’t it?”

She’s somehow not surprised to find Paris here, curled against the mast, eyes on the bright expanse of space before them. He looks different somehow, relaxed in a way B’Elanna has not seen him before. She knows what it is like to live among people who never fully trust you; no wonder he might look for a place to escape.  
  
  


She realizes belatedly that she has just interrupted his solitude. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were up here.” She starts to reverse course and head back down the ladder.

“Wait.” Paris’s voice stops her: it too is different — stripped of its usual defensive layers. “I wanted to thank you.”

B’Elanna scowls. “I don’t want your thanks.”

“I figured that.”

“I didn’t do it — any of it — for you.”

“I know that too. Thank you anyway.” He turns towards her then with a soft smile that makes her scowl deepen: after all, she too has a full arsenal of protective reflexes. “And now, I’ll get out of your spot,” he adds, standing.

“It’s not my spot,” B’Elanna corrects, but she finishes the climb and steps up onto the crow’s nest platform. “It’s not even my ship.”

Paris again gives that soft smile, and she wishes he would stop: he’s easier to deal with as a self-absorbed pig. 

He pats the ship’s mast. “I think she is — your ship, I mean.” Then, the pilot seems to shake himself and his face shifts, that ever-present, arrogant mask visibly sliding back into place. Abruptly, he moves past her to the ladder. “I’ll leave you to it then. Unless,” and he stops a rung or two down the climb, throwing his customary leer back up at her, “you’re looking for some company?” 

“ _petaQ_!” B’Elanna spits down at him and he disappears with a self-satisfied grin. 

She stares after him for a moment before shaking her head to clear thoughts of the maddening pilot even as she slides into his still warm spot against the ship’s mast.

Before her stretches an endless sea of stars.

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to Photogirl1890 who responded to my tentative query as to whether she might be willing to read through some muddled ideas I had for an...um...ahem...space pirate AU with an enthusiastic, "Yes, send it over!" Without her unfailing support, this story would still be residing solely in my head.


End file.
